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Post Conception Preconceptions

Everyone has got preconceived notions about how kids “should” be raised. These ideas serve two purposes. First, they let more experienced parents get a good laugh at your expense. Second, they slowly turn you into your parents, because most of these ideas seem to come from the deeply held belief that your mama would have beat your ass for acting like that. I’m not sure if the point is that your mama did it right, or if it’s just that you feel that if you had to live in terror, then everyone should have to endure that same sort of looking-over-your-shoulder, adrenaline soaked, Fear of the Wrath of God when eating extra cookies, swearing, or jumping on the bed.

In my case, I’m fairly lucky in that Jeoff and I seem to have had pretty similar rules as small children. So, we can have all of our parental notions blown out of the water by small willfull creatures together. As a family.

Heh.

Absolute Rules for Child-Rearing I Currently Hold Dear, Sure to Make Me Feel Very Foolish in the Years to Come

1.) Germs won’t kill you.
Back in the day, there was no such thing as “anti-bacterial soap.” Or, that hand cleaning stuff that comes in the pump containers that’s most alcohol. Or, disposable Lysol wipes. Or, the cloth barriers that Rootie mentioned that one can stick in the grocery cart baby seat. No indeed, that germ encrusted grocery bar is only there so that 6 months olds can gnaw on it and get all the exposure to the germs running around their community they need to survive cold season. Or, as George Carlin put it:

”Kid’s today have it too easy. If you want to build up your immune system swim in the Hudson River with the raw sewage like we did as kids.”

The current trend for disinfecting everything hit Texas when I was in 8th or 9th grade, or so, and it struck me as completely insane then. So, when kids born after 1990 start dropping from Rubell-tubercu-ebola C, you all know what happened.

It may be the Rubell-tubercu-ebola C that will probably eventually turn me into a disinfector, too. That, or the horrified looks from other moms when I shrug after my kid drops the pacifier the dirt, then promptly sticks it back in it’s mouth. While I am strongly of the opinion that eating dirt in moderate quantities is probably just fine, I’m pretty sure it’s also socially unacceptable, and no one wants to be ostracized on the playground because the other moms think you’re Typhoid Mary.

2.) Children can be hosed down.
The phrase “hosed down” is taken directly from my mother. We’d get dirty, she’d say, “Just, hose ‘em down.” There were a couple of variations of that one, the most infuriating of which went something, like, “You’re not sugar or shit… a little water won’t melt you.” Other “shit” colloquialisms got lobbed our way (“Wish in one hand, shit in the other…”) which really struck me as unfair as a kid, because there’s no arguing with someone that’s allowed to say words you’re not allowed to use.

Anyway, shit aside, we were allowed to get dirty. Really gross, ring around the tub dirty. We were also not allowed to protest bathing. No dirty feet in beds. “Toss ‘em in the tub.”

Now, in theory, this is totally true. But, that stinky kid smell—the wet dog version—makes me gag. I can totally envision a future where I say things like, “Oh, PLEASE don’t get into that. I don’t want to smell you later!” And, then the kid will be footing the bill for therapy years later, for severe OCD behavior brought on by being haunted by notions that if they don’t smell like a rose, no one will love them.

3.) Mom is not a short order cook.
This rule was pretty much absolute when I was a child. Aside from “turn off the lights when you leave a room,” it may have been the most frequently uttered phrase in our house. The one exception was when she cooked this dish that translated to “Green Stuff.” I don’t remember what all was in it, aside from cilantro and beans and maybe lemon, but it looked like stewed lawn mower clippings and it reeked. My sister and I tried it, which was mandatory, and then just flat out refused to ever eat that stuff, again. Ever. So, Green Stuff nights were the only exception to the “Mom is not a short order cook” rule. Otherwise, dinner was what mom cooked. Once we were old enough to reach cupboards and see over the cabinet, we could get away with eating cereal or a sandwich occasionally, but never for more than one night.

There was no living on a diet of hot dogs, chicken nuggets, or pb&j in our house. Period.

So, these kids running around that will only eat goldfish crackers, mac and cheese, and oranges, blow my mind. Seriously. I just cannot wrap my head around it. And, sometimes it’s all excused with “Little Billy has sensory issues.” Or, “I don’t want food to be a battle in our home.” Or, “If you don’t let them graze and learn their own appetites they end up obese/anorexic. Set dinnertimes are abusive.” (Yes, someone actually said that to me. Dinnertime is abusive. For real. Does it get more privileged then that? Really?)

Blows my mind.

This is probably the one that’s gonna come back to bite me the worst, because it’s the one that confounds and offends me the most. So, in three years, when my kid only eats American cheese slices and french fries, you can all laugh at me. And, then I’ll be the one saying “sensory issues,” which will be shorthand for “my kid won the battle of the wills, and I’m too tired to actually shove food down it’s gullet.”

4.) I’m driving, I pick the music.
Babies have inherently bad taste in music. This is an absolute. If you think that you are the exception to that rule—maybe your Mom really loved the Beatles, or your Dad was really into Al Green, and you think you’ve always benefited from an inborn ear for superior pop music, I’m here to tell you you’re wrong. You’re dead wrong. You’re phenomenally wrong. Sure, you may remember what your parents listened to. I do. But, that doesn’t mean that you responded to it the way that you think you did. I can guarantee you, that at 18 months or so, while you might not have objected to things that weren’t intrinsically terrible, the stuff that actually got your diaper shaking was Davy Jones or The Monkees. Or, The Bee Gees or The Village People. Or, Olivia Newton John and The Pointer Sisters. Or, some other dreadfully hokey pop sensation.

There’s a reason pop music is what it is. It appeals to your inner toddler. The Medulla Lizard Brain responds to it. We’re all born loving shitty dance music and the worlds most repetitive, nonsensical, annoying children’s songs. So, basically any 2 year old can happily listen to The Macarena on repeat for 6 straight hours, and then when you finally break down and beat the stereo to death with a shovel, and collapse on the couch in exhausted, if crazed triumph, the toddler in question will promptly bust out with The Itsy Bitsy Spider. With the wrong lyrics. For 6 more hours.

So, while I had records and a player of my own, I didn’t control the radio in the car. And, of course, there was not Radio Disney at the time. Or, those DVD players. Or, car seats, really. Or, any indication that children should be fully occupied with marketable product at all times.

This is, of course, a notion of mine that’s doomed to failure. I assume that it’s doomed, because I know too many grown mothers that listen to Hannah Montana and the Backyardigans. At some point, I suppose, the “Just SHUT UP” factor becomes too much, I suppose, and any little thing that brings on some peace is good enough. Even if it’s “Hot Potato” on repeat. For six hours.

5.) Crying won’t kill you.
This is a huge one.

Seems like most of the stuff I see that makes me wonder how the hell I’m going to do this the parenting bit is a result of the deathly fear of crying. That a kid making noise is either dying from unmet needs or driving the parents insane enough to put everyone’s life in danger.

Why the food battles? So you won’t hear the tantrum. Why the DVD players in every room and the car? So you won’t hear the tantrum. Why the lack of bedtime, or lack of bath time, or the lack of any rules at all? So you won’t hear the tantrum. I hate to think I’ll spend the next who-knows how long tiptoeing around someone, terrified of the noise they might make. And, I see a lot of parents do just that.

I’m a fairly patient person in a lot of ways. I’m also pretty good at doing what I gotta do, whether I want to or not. I guess I’m about to find out just how far that goes.

tags: parenting